


Six Different Kinds of Love

by tellywhich



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, No Smut, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Season/Series 04, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/pseuds/tellywhich
Summary: A collection of 6 vignettes that explore the different natures of Sherlock's relationships and how they help him finally make the leap to "romantic entanglement."





	

**Author's Note:**

> In the aftermath of The Final Problem, I am finding that I have a renewed enthusiasm for finishing the fics I started awhile go. As specified in the tags, this story is centered around Johnlock. It spans from the end of Series 2 and glosses through Series 3 with an alternative ending. This is my second fic (if you don't count the Sailor Moon ones I wrote as a kid). I hope you enjoy it. It sure was fun to write!

_1) Mycroft – Before the Fall_

“Sherlock, this must be your top priority from now on. Let the other cases stand. They practically solve themselves, anyway.”

I was seated in one of Mycroft's richly appointed offices. Wood-panelled walls and heavy curtains dimmed the noon light to twilight. A small green lamp on his ridiculously large wooden desk did little to help. It very adequately reflected the divide that I felt from him as a brother. At my long silence, he raised his eyebrows and steepled his fingers. This irritated me. I'd been the first to acquire the latter mannerism, and of course he had adopted it immediately.

 _Moriarty._ A deep sense of unease rose unbidden from under the layers of discipline and logic I maintained in my mind. No matter how hard I tried, I could not completely eradicate my emotions.

“Learn to acknowledge your fear, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “It can do no good to repress it now.”

I gritted my teeth and slouched in my chair, though it made me all the more uncomfortable. Mycroft continued talking, his pompous voice assailing my ears, heightening my irritation.

“Moriarty will feed off of any repressed emotion that he can detect. I do believe it wise to assume that he may be able to read you as well as I do. Certainly after the incident at the pool, in which he chose Dr. Watson to bait you.”

Not that again.

“John was a convenient choice,” I said, looking away.

Mycroft turned his head to glance at the small tablet tilted away from my view on the desk, his body and face perfectly blank.

“Dr. Watson inspires deep emotion,” he said. “A feat as yet unmatched by any other person who has the pleasure of your acquaintance.” He raised his teacup to his lips and gently set it back on the saucer without so much as a click from the porcelain.

“John is John,” I said.

“Dr. Watson is one of your most dangerous weaknesses-”

“He is not.”

“He is as long as you ignore your feelings about him,” Mycroft finished, leaning forward. “Embrace them, and he will be your greatest strength.”

I stared at him in shock, though my face was just as blank as his always was. We'd been playing this game since childhood.

“What feelings?” I asked, scoffing. “Have you gone mad? I'll admit I feel a deep appreciation for his friendship. I haven't put a needle in my arm for quite some time now.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, his shoulders tensing, lips turning downward a fraction.

“No, no, Sherlock.” He looked at me with a pained expression. “You cannot simply replace one with the other-”

“I never knew you to be of such delicate sensibilities, Mycroft.”

Mycroft folded his hands on the desktop, one eyebrow arching.

“Really? You want to play this game now, little brother?”

I leaned forward and put my hands on the desk. Our eyes met, and I could almost hear the wheels in Mycroft's mind turning, though as always, the thoughts behind them remained inscrutable. In my mind, I saw the pool again. John staggering out of the door, loaded down with explosives. His attempt to save my life by taking Moriarty hostage. What a strange and wild little man he was. And what a rash decision that was. That last thought wiped the smile from my face.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“Let him in,” he said. “As long as you hold on to the fear, Moriarty will win.”

I looked at my watch.

“I'm going,” I said, rising from my chair. Mycroft followed suit, standing behind his desk, unmoving. I turned to go and heard the telltale intake of breath. Mycroft's last word. He always had to have it.

“Sherlock, if you don't reconsider, the consequences could be disastrous.”

I looked back at my brother, but I was thinking of John's earnest, albeit often foolish, courage. There were too many variables that would only make themselves known in the heat of the moment. This was the only way to absolutely ensure his safety. Mycroft tucked his chin slightly, and made to speak again. I put up a hand, cutting him off.

“You've said enough.” I knotted my scarf about my neck.

Mycroft sighed. “Well, then, good day, dear brother.”

Anthea was standing in the open doorway, waiting to see me out.

“This way,” she said, her eyes glancing past me toward Mycroft. She nodded slightly and then turned and led me down the hall.

 

_2) Molly – After the Fall_

Molly unlocked the door, her hands shaking. I stood back a distance, not wanting to give her any untoward ideas, though I was fairly certain she'd gotten the point that I wasn't interested. I felt a twinge of regret at my behavior at the Christmas Party. John berated me about it later that evening, misdirecting his frustration with the latest girlfriend who had just broken up with him. As if it were a big surprise. I couldn't believe he hadn't seen that one coming.

Molly cleared her throat. She was standing in the open doorway of her flat, waiting for me to come in.

“Are you all right, Sherlock?”

“Yes. I'm fine,” I said, pushing past her. She followed me in, her eyes boring into the back of my head.

“I thought it would be best if you kipped in my bedroom,” Molly said. “Without me, I mean,” she added.

“What?” I asked.

“You get the bedroom,” she said.

“Oh, that's very generous of you.” I noted the rather short sofa in the living room. Her eyes followed my gaze.

“Oh yes,” she said. “You need your privacy. And I would fit better on the sofa. It's really very comfortable. I don't mind.”

I hadn't wondered if she minded. It was obvious she didn't.

“May I?” I asked, nodding toward the bedroom door.

“Go ahead,” she said.

The bedroom was small, but perfectly adequate. The walls were totally bare, which surprised me, until I noted several areas where the paint was slightly less faded. Molly followed me in.

“How long do you plan on staying?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I said, throwing my satchel on the bed.

“Do try and remember I'm doing you a favor, Sherlock.”

At the sudden change in her tone, I turned to look at her. She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Of course, Molly,” I said. “I'm sorry. It's just been a lot.” I gave her my best hurt expression. And then the expression actually connected to the emotion, and I wondered why I'd been honest.

Her entire demeanor changed, the harsh lines of her shoulders and mouth softening.

“He was quite torn apart,” she said. “John, I mean. When are you going to tell him you're not dead?”

“I'm not,” I said. “He must not know that I survived the fall.”

Molly stared at me in disbelief, her hands on her hips.

“Really? But Sherlock, that's ridiculous!”

I turned on her, my lips drawn back in a snarl, but stopped myself just in time when I took in her worried eyes and vulnerable expression.

“It's just...” she continued, looking away from my stare. “It's just I don't know if I could keep such a secret from him. How long? Will anyone else know?”

“Just avoid him,” I snapped. “You've no reason to see him now that I'm dead.”

“Don't say it like that!” She was angry again, fists clenched, eyes watering. More proof that emotions were a liability. I could feel my own anger simmering just below the surface of my calculating mind, and below that, a pit of sorrow.

“I see no reason to sugarcoat the situation,” I replied.

“Don't act like you don't care. Like this isn't a big deal. This is a big deal!” Molly wiped her eyes quickly and turned from the doorway, then dodged back in.

“When you know how long you plan on staying, let me know,” she said. “I do have a life outside of work.”

I watched as she slammed the bedroom door closed behind her.

 

Molly barely spoke to me that week, but she did attend my memorial service and burial. I avoided the memorial, dreading the tabloid media spectacle now that I was dead. But I couldn't stay away from the burial, fascinated by the sight of the casket being lowered into the ground, imagining what it would be like to actually be dead. John's grief would not be wasted then.

Molly wore a simple black dress that looked rather nice, and stood apart from the others on the lawn, her mouth in a thin straight line. She avoided looking at John the entire time. I was shocked when I first saw him, for it seemed as if he'd aged ten years in a week. Lestrade stood nearby, patting him on the shoulder every now and then. When the burial was finished, and people trailed away, John insisted on staying alone.

What he spoke I cannot repeat, for it is mine and mine alone to remember. But suffice it to say that everything I'd told myself about why it was right to lie to John was blown away. I wanted to walk up to him, explain everything. But it was too late for that now.

 

In the following days, I wanted the drugs again. I couldn't bear to be alone in the bedroom. In the mornings, Molly brought me water and tea, tried to ply me with toast and jam, but I barely had an appetite.

The keys turned in the lock, and Molly stepped in, carrying a bag of take away from the Chinese down the street.

“Oh God, Sherlock!” she said, glaring at me. “I can't stand this anymore!”

She dropped the food and her purse, tore off her coat, and walked up to me, grabbing my wrists and trying to pull me to my feet.

“Stop,” I said.

“ _You_ stop this,” she cried, tugging harder.

I dug my heels into the floor and shook off her hands. Molly fell back onto the carpet, glaring up at me.

“This is my bloody flat, Sherlock!” she snapped. “I don't even want to come home anymore. Why don't you just tell John and get it over with?”

“It's not that simple,” I said. I put my head in my hands.

“Well, why not?” Molly asked.

Much to my embarrassment, I started to cry. I hadn't slept properly in days. My defenses were not what they used to be. She let me cry. I heard her stand and walk away, snatching up her food.

“Molly! Don't go! Please!” I looked up, my face no doubt an appalling mess, but I had no choice. If she walked away now, I really would go past the point of no return, and the plan would have been for nothing.

Her chin was trembling, her teeth gritted. She was trying to stay angry. I sat and looked at her, trying to get my body to stop shaking. She sighed, put her take away on the card table by the kitchen, hung her coat and purse over the back of the chair, and came to sit next to me.

“Tell me everything,” she said.

I sat back, wiped my face on the sleeve of my dressing gown and met her eyes. She smiled, encouraging me. I told her everything about Moriarty. About my plan to defeat him. About all of the information that Mycroft had given him. About why John couldn't know anything. When I was finished, Molly squeezed my shoulder.

“I do believe that John would prefer to be in danger,” she said. “If it meant you were alive.”

“He can't know, Molly.” I could barely manage to choke out the words.

She pursed her lips and gave me a speculative glance.

“All right,” she sighed, finally releasing me from her gaze, a worried line appearing between her eyebrows. “Well, then, at least you've got a plan to see you through. And plenty of work to do as a distraction.”

“True,” I said.

“And Sherlock,” she added, taking my hand and looking me in the eyes. “Someday you should tell John. I know he feels the same way.”

A range of emotions flitted through my mind and body all at once. Denial, embarrassment, shame, yearning, doubt, fear, happiness...I let them settle around me. I looked at her, started to argue, but my voice caught in my throat.

She smiled wistfully. “Fancy some Chinese for dinner?”

 

_3) Mrs. Hudson – Leaving London_

John moved out of Baker Street. Mycroft told me just yesterday. My whole world had been rearranged, all the small routines I'd grown to depend on reshuffled and restacked. I was used to living with John, hearing him hammering away at his computer over tea. Waking to the sound of breakfast dishes clinking. The sight of him walking down the street, jug of milk in hand, bag of groceries in the other. His face illuminated by the flickering telly as he flipped through the evening programmes.

It was time to leave London, but I insisted on visiting Baker Street one last time. I insisted that I make the visit alone. I left Molly's flat while she was at work, not wanting to say goodbye face-to-face. I left her a note, instead.

_Dear Molly,_

_Thank you._

_-SH_

My handwriting was small and cramped, up near a corner of the page, because I'd planned to write a longer message. However, when I got down to it, I didn't know what else to say.

I disguised myself as Mycroft had instructed and took a taxi to Baker Street. My key still worked in the lock. I found Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room, apron on, surveying the state of the flat with an overwhelmed expression. She turned, her mouth dropping open.

“Oh, Sherlock!” In three steps she was in front of me, gripping my shoulders and shaking me. “I knew it wasn't true!”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course not.”

“And I suppose the accusations that you are a fraud are all an extravagant lie?”

“Yes.” I gritted my teeth.

“Well,” she said. “I knew _that_ already. So what now, you've come to tidy your mess? Because, I'm your-”

“Landlady, I know,” I interrupted. “Not my housekeeper. And no. I must leave London immediately. This 'mess,'” I waved my hands around the room, “as you so charmingly called it, will no doubt be handled by my brother.”

Mrs. Hudson stepped back.

“Oh. Where are you going? Is John going with you?”

I didn't answer, pulling from her grasp and making as if I planned to pack some things, hoping she would leave.

“He doesn't know, does he?” she asked, after watching me a moment. I ignored her, moving restlessly through the sitting room. She could always see right through my charades, anyway.

“I need to pack and be gone,” I said. “Some privacy would be appreciated.”

She said nothing, turning and closing the door behind her as she went down the stairs.

 

I waited to make sure she wasn't going to pop back in.

“John,” I said. The name went unanswered, of course, the sound of my voice absorbed into the quiet of the room. I went upstairs, to his old room. There was still a trace of his scent, that garish deodorant he wore. The room was empty, closet hanging open. It had been cleaned already. He left nothing behind. A wave of anger coursed through me, that he gave up on me so easily. That he missed all the clues that I left him. I stormed down the stairs and back into the sitting room, kicking at John's chair as I passed.

 

A moment later, the door to the stairs creaked open. Mrs. Hudson peered in at me.

“John's come back,” she said. “He's waiting in my sitting room downstairs. I told him Mycroft's men were in here, and that they wanted no interruption.”

“Tell him to go,” I said.

She stepped into the sitting room, shutting the door behind her.

“I will do no such thing,” she snapped. “It was terrible enough to lie to him this once. You'll have to tell him to leave yourself.” She raised her chin and glared at me.

“Mrs. Hudson, you idiot. _He cannot know I am alive._ ”

“I won't do it.” She crossed her arms. “He deserves better than that.”

“Why is he back here anyway?” I asked. “His room is empty. He's left nothing behind.”

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. “Because he is grieving your death, Sherlock. Goodness knows I won't bother the next time I think you're dead. He's come back here twice already since moving out last week. You broke his heart!”

“I did no such thing,” I said, striding over to tower above her, my anger peaking to rage. “We were flatmates, not lovers, as you so often insisted. There is a very good reason he must not know I'm alive, but my work, and the often unpleasant tasks it requires, are no one's concern but my own.”

“Don't act as if you didn't wish for more,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Shut up!”

“Well, then,” she said. “I'll tell him myself!” She spun away.

“Martha! Don't do it!” I said, panic coursing through my body like high voltage electricity.

“Martha? I'm Martha now?” Mrs. Hudson said, picking up a book from the side table and making as if to throw it to me.

“You don't understand!” I said. “His life is in danger. He must not know.”

“But why?” Mrs. Hudson asked, her dark eyes glittering. “Aren't you being a bit dramatic? As if he were a superhero's sweetheart?”

My rage and panic melted away, leaving nothing behind. Mrs. Hudson put a hand on the back of John's old armchair.

“If you won't tell him, then at least let him go,” she said.

“I'm not doing anything to hold him.”

“Why are you here, then?” Mrs. Hudson asked. I ignored her and whipped out my mobile to text Mycroft.

_Code 53._

_-SH_

Mrs. Hudson watched me closely.

A moment later, my mobile chimed with his response.

_We are arranging a distraction._

_Exit the building via the side window, take the alley to the street._

_A taxi will stop and a woman in a red coat will disembark._

_Get in after she pays the fare._

_M_

 

“It doesn't have to be this way,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Don't you see that?”

“I have no choice,” I said. “Now, please. Don't tell John.” I threw open the side window. She pressed her lips together in disapproval. I stared at her, not wanting to threaten her, but prepared to do it if I had to. She saw it in my eyes.

“I won't speak a word,” she said. “Farewell, Mr. Holmes.”

 

4) _Irene Adler – Away from Home_

I don't know how she found me. But there she was, sitting across the room from me at a café. I was waiting for contact from an informant. Though she'd been involved with Moriarty, I had deduced that her power and usefulness were both destroyed the night I guessed the password to her mobile. What could she possibly have to say to me now?

After a few more minutes of intermittent eye contact, I walked toward her. Her eyes followed my every move, and despite myself, I prowled, the hair on my arms rising the closer I got. She tilted her head back to gaze up at me as I stood by the table.

“You're here,” she said, swallowing hard, leaning back in her seat. Her entire body radiated a controlled fierceness I'd never seen from her before.

“May I?” I asked.

She nodded and gestured, tilting her eyes away from me. I pulled a wooden chair out from under the mosaic table and sat down. She cocked her head to the side, stared at me for a moment.

“I thought you were dead,” she said, her voice catching as she whispered forcefully. I heard an echo of the sensual text message tone she'd programmed into my mobile. But she looked hurt. And shocked. And a little bit angry. Surely she didn't care that much.

“And I heard _you_ were dead,” I answered, attempting to deflect the discomfort rising in my chest. She started to smile, then leaned back, struggling to control her feelings.

“Very funny.” Her hand snaked across the table and covered mine. She was still talking in a forced whisper, and my back tensed with irritation, warmth flushing through my entire body at the same time.

“Spare me the routine,” I said, my voice rumbling deep in my chest. I hadn't meant to growl, to heighten the tension at the table.

“Be nice, then.” She dug her nails into the back of my hand. Her foot slid along the side of my leg and I frowned, shifting away.

“Sit still,” she demanded, and I felt something press against my leg, a thumb drive sliding into my sock. My heart was pounding. I could barely breathe.

Irene smiled. “There, that's done.”

“I'll take my leave then.” I extricated my hand from hers and stood. “It's been a pleasure, of course,” I continued, waving my hands, realizing I was babbling.

“Sit down,” she said, her voice loud in the café. “I'm not done with you.” She tucked her chin stubbornly and glared at me. I backed away and she half-stood.

“Sit. Down,” she repeated, her voice deepening.

“What are you doing?” I asked, panic overtaking all of my senses as I sat back down at the table.

“What do you think?” she asked, her voice and posture changing, shifting, becoming the dominatrix.

“Stop it,” I said, pinning her with my eyes. She shifted her posture back to the controlled fierceness, her face becoming a perfect mask of grief and anger, worry and relief. I thought of John. Was she imitating his mannerisms? A chill ran down my arms and she raised an eyebrow.

“Am I right, then?” she asked. “Do tell me I am.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Liar,” she said. “You just thought of him. I saw it.”

“You're wrong,” I said, trying to remain calm.

“Am I?” she asked. She tilted her head, feigning nonchalance, and licked her lips nervously.

_I must not think of John._

“Yes. You are wrong, Irene,” I said. My voice cracked and I closed my eyes for a moment.

“And you're obviously lying.” Her voice was back to the dominatrix tone, spilling like molasses all over me.

“No.” My head was spinning. I looked down at the table, at my hands spread flat over the surface. I wouldn't dare meet her gaze now.

She laughed. “Oh, just admit it.”

I stared down at the mosaic tiles blankly. The table had been crafted in 1982, or thereabouts. It was a poor factory replica of the traditional hand-made version. There was a slight overtone of sewage in the air of the café, and the floors were sticky under my feet, so the ground water rose regularly. Irene was wearing perfume, Clair de la Lune. She'd been wearing Opium last time.

“Fine,” I murmured. “You're right.”

I looked up at her, knowing the hurt she could read in my face, but unable to hide it.

“Good-bye Sherlock,” The Woman said, patting my arm. All trace of John's mannerisms were gone from her face and body. Her posture was relaxed, not the dominatrix for the moment, either. “Be sure to tell John I said hello when you see him again. I know you will.”

She squeezed my arm once before walking away. I remembered John's face. The way he looked at the funeral. The shell-shocked glaze of his eyes. His slumping shoulders. Homesickness ran roughshod over my heart. It was time to go home. I wanted to go home. But there was no way to go back. At least not yet.

 

 _5) Lestrade –_ _Return to London_  

I should have guessed that London would find a way to be in great danger again. Mrs. Hudson would be shocked if she knew how glad I was to hear of the terrorist threat. It meant I could go home, of course. It meant I could see John again.

It had been two years. He was living with a woman. Mary. I hated the sight of her. Again, thoughts of Mrs. Hudson's disapproval stopped me. How could I hate a person I hadn't even met? But she was the one going with John to dinner. I decided to surprise him there, at the Landmark. Perhaps when he saw me, he would know what a mistake he'd made. But, it went terribly. He didn't want to see me. He was furious. Mary promised she'd turn him around.

I went to find Lestrade, with some trepidation, and was relieved to find that he was happy to see me, and did not begrudge me my necessary deception. Strangely enough, even Anderson was glad to see me. I got to work on a secondary case immediately. I needed an extra distraction, the terrorism case having hit a lull as I mulled over the known facts. I asked Molly to assist me, as John still wouldn't see me. I began to hang around the New Scotland Yard, not wanting to be at Baker Street, in the quiet, lonely flat.

“I'm done for the day, mate,” Lestrade said, finding me aimlessly rifling through some papers at his desk.

“Oh?” It was early. I glanced at him, but read nothing new. Married yet estranged from his wife, overworked, lonely, regular drinker, going to the-

“Fancy a pint at the pub?” he asked.

He'd never invited me before.

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Oh, come on, then,” Lestrade said. “You've been sulking around here all week. What's the use of that?”

I looked at him with my patented blank stare, but he insisted on keeping the friendly, open grin on his face. We stared each other down for a moment, until I crumbled.

“All right.”

Lestrade chuckled, slapping my arm. “Let's go!”

 

“I've got this round,” he said, rising to go order at the bar. He got distracted talking to a friend, and I watched, envying them their easy rapport.

“Now, what's going on?” Lestrade asked, as he scooted back into the booth, two pints in hand. He grinned as I took a long drink from my glass.

“What do you mean?” I asked, wiping foam from my lips.

Lestrade leaned forward a bit. “I mean, where's John? Still angry?”

“Yes.”

He mulled over this a bit, sucking on his beer, and glancing out across the pub. His eyes settled back on my face.

“Can't blame him, really,” he said. “I still don't understand why you couldn't have at least given him a hint that you weren't really dead.”

“I _did_ leave hints.” I crossed my arms across my chest and leaned back. “I left him so many hints. He didn't notice any of them.”

“You're not one to leave a reliably obvious hint, though,” Lestrade said. “Poor bloke isn't the only one who missed 'em. I did, too.”

“I hate being brilliant,” I said.

“Oh, we hate it, too,” Lestrade replied.

I glared at him.

“What?” he asked. “You're not kind about it. You're quite lucky we stick around. Molly is a kind and gentle lass. Doesn't surprise me she would have patience to spare. John is a good soul, as well. And me? I don't know what's wrong with me.”

“Molly is helplessly besotted with me,” I said. “John is an idiot, and so are you.” I knew Lestrade didn't deserve this rudeness, but it was pouring out of me.

“Don't I know it.” His eyes hardened. “Don't I know all of it. I'm starting to think I don't feel as bad for you as I thought I did.”

I sighed. “Go on, then. I don't need friends.”

“Liar,” Lestrade said. I sat bolt upright, shocked to stillness. The Woman's voice echoed through my head. Liar. Liar. Liar.

“What? What is it, Sherlock?”

“You're right, of course,” I said, grimacing. “I am a liar. You're not an idiot. Molly is one of my greatest friends. And John?” I couldn't quite say it. “I have...I have a lot of feelings about John.”

“Yes, yes,” Lestrade said, looking away. “I thought as much.”

“You didn't,” I said.

“I so did,” he said. “It's bleeding obvious, it is.”

I stared at him, my blood running cold, then drained my pint glass.

“Oy, slow down,” Lestrade said. “Wouldn't help to get pissed in the middle of problem-solving this nasty bit of business. Feelings are confusing enough when a bloke's sober. Now did you try saying you're sorry?”

I hadn't thought of that. “No.”

Lestrade laughed. “Do you even understand why John would be angry?”

I shrugged. “Not really.”

Lestrade took a sip from his pint, tilting it and looking down at the table as he talked.

“See, it's this way,” he said. “John's the bloke that went everywhere with you. You two were nearly inseparable. Then, I hear, you string him out with a tale of emotional turmoil when you faked your suicide. Then you tell Molly and Mrs. Hudson you're alive, and not John? The person you spend the most time with out of the lot of us? The person who probably knows you the most? I would be angry, too. Can't you see that?”

“But that's why it was so important that he not know,” I said. “The facade of my death relied upon his believing it.”

Lestrade put his chin in his hand and met my eyes.

“Aye, he does wears his heart on his sleeve, doesn't he? But that doesn't change the fact that you hurt his feelings. Deeply.”

I stared at the table, frozen by the thought.

“I see,” I said.

“No, I don't think you do,” Lestrade sighed.

I looked at him, my eyebrows raised.

“But I think at least you're feeling something, and that's a start,” he added.

“I'm not that much of a monster,” I snapped. “I've had feelings all the time I was away. Horrible feelings that I didn't know how to handle. Nobody seems to care about how I've been suffering, what sacrifices I have made, what work I have done. It's all poor John, poor John.”

“Poor John, indeed,” Lestrade commented, totally unimpressed by my tantrum. I sat back in frustration. In the space of a breath, the cage closed around my heart again, pushing the emotions out of my mind. It was easier when the people I cared for where just memories to mull over, rather than fully-realized human beings, sitting across from me, talking back.

Lestrade's face softened.

“Don't hide from this, Sherlock,” he said. “I can't claim to come even close to understanding you, but I do recognize when a man is trying to ignore his feelings.” He paused, taking another sip of his beer, then cleared his throat. “Just tell John you're sorry. Try to be honest with him about everything you say. That's the best you can do.”

“I don't recall asking for advice,” I muttered, but my voice held no rancor.

“Fine.” Lestrade shrugged. “But don't bother coming back to work at the Yard 'til you have yourself sorted. We can't stand to see you moping about with your edge dulled. It's depressing. Worse than not seeing you at all.”

I smiled. “Are you saying you've missed me?”

“Of course, you daft fool,” Lestrade said. “Having you around is better than watching telly.”

 

_6) John – Back in London_

I stood in the sitting room, staring at my case wall, which contained all of the information about the terrorist network that Mycroft could muster. The door opened, and there he stood, his ridiculous mustache bristling, his shoulders slumped. John.

“I'm sorry,” I said. It popped out before I was ready. I'd planned an entire speech with Lestrade, complete with a lead up that he insisted was necessary. But it all went to pieces in my mind when I saw him.

His face was set, as if in stone. He didn't even smile.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“I wanted to tell you, John.”

“Spare me the details, Sherlock.”

I winced, and he saw it.

“I'm sorry,” I said, my heart beating faster as I tried again. I resisted the urge to step forward. His expression still spoke of violence. He shuffled his feet on the carpet, taking a few steps closer.

“There's something else I need to say, John,” I continued.

“Go on.” He was trying to sound casual and apathetic, but I could hear the hoarseness in his voice, the way his throat was probably tightening with emotion, as mine was at this very moment.

I cleared my throat.

“My memories of our time together is what got me through the...ordeals I have endured the last two years.”

“What exactly do you want from me? Just spit it out.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He shifted his weight from one foot to another impatiently.

“I've seen you do this to Molly plenty of times when you wanted something,” he said. “This bloody awful emotional manipulation. I've watched you do it to me, and I foolishly gave in every time, too. I'm too old and tired for that now. Just say it plainly. What do you want from me?”

Try to be honest, Lestrade had suggested.

“I want you to come back. To live here. With me.”

“No,” John said. “I've moved on, remember?”

“Of course.” There were tears in my eyes now. “But that doesn't stop me from wanting that.”

“Crocodile tears again so soon, Sherlock? I thought you'd save them for a special occasion.”

“They're real,” I said. “They were always real.”

John put up a hand, cutting me off. “Stop,” he said, choking up.

“Fine,” I said. “I'm done, anyway.”

John gave me a look that I didn't even know how to read, and then he bolted out the door and hammered down the stairs.

 

I can't understand why I care so much. I've spent years declaring I am a sociopath, immersing myself in the science of deduction, only to find that Dr. John Watson can unravel me just as much as the next drooling human foolishly compromising what little intelligence they have on the pursuit of romantic love. None of it has a place in my mind palace. It's a waste of time, a waste of space, and yet no matter how much I know this, with all of my being, John continues to dominate my thoughts.

I immersed myself in my work. Oh, the terrorists were clever, but I found the switch on the bomb. Lestrade said I shouldn't have gone alone, but there was no time to waste. And I was alone all the time now, anyway. What's the difference?

These feelings are like a disease, slowly incapacitating me. Sometimes I hate John. Sometimes I want to cut away all my memories of him. They are starting to leech onto everything around them, contaminating my most precious tool. The man has poisoned me, though I know it was unintentional. John Watson is not part of my work. He could never be. He is too slow. Too ordinary. Too gullible. Too earnest. And I know he won't come back. Why would he? When he has Mary? Why would he return to me? I have nothing to offer him but myself. I'm really trying not to give up. I really am. But in the end, my basest desires will win, as they always do.

 

When I came back to Baker Street, after yet another detox at Mycroft's facility, I spent my time obsessively working on cases, and trying not to get on John's blog to read his posts again. Weeks passed, and though I was getting used to being alone, the drugs still called to me. I glanced at my mobile, thought of calling Molly, but I'd just talked to her yesterday. They were all taking care of me now – Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft. Not a day went by when one of them didn't come by to check on me, bringing food and cigarettes, making me tea, or just sitting with me for awhile. I hadn't seen or heard from John since the day he accused me of crocodile tears.

Mrs. Hudson was tidying up the sitting room while I sprawled in my chair, staring into the kitchen, a spill of file folders and paperwork across my lap. She stopped, glancing over at me at the sound of a tread on the stairs. All of the embarrassment and shame I'd been trying to ignore came back full force.

“It's John,” I said, panicking.

“That's all right, love,” she said. “I'm glad he's coming to see you.”

I gave her a stricken look and shifted the papers off my lap. Then John was in the doorway, and Mrs. Hudson rushed over to give him a hug.

“Oh, I'm glad you came back!” she said. “I've missed you, John!”

“I've missed you, too, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, patting her back.

“I'll be downstairs,” she said, turning back to give me a wink before she closed the sitting room door with a snap.

There was a long moment of silence during which John put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoes.

“Hello, John,” I said. My voice came out in an embarrassing squeak. I uncrossed my legs, my left foot falling to the floor with a thump, and sat up straighter, nervously smoothing out my shirt. My eyes never left his face.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he replied.

I made to rise, but his look froze me in place.

“Stay there,” he said, and walked over to where his chair used to be. We sat in silence for a moment, John pursing his lips then drawing them into a thin line.

“Are you still clean?” he asked.

“Yes. Ten weeks and counting. Thanks to my friends.”

A dark look flickered across his face.

“Sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

John tucked his chin. “I haven't been much of a friend lately, have I?”

I looked away. “Nor have I.”

“So we're even,” he said.

“Not even close,” I said. “I've been an idiot. And insensitive. From the start, really.”

“You were pretty awful,” John agreed.

I shifted back in my chair. Sooner or later, the dreaded subject would come up. I chose to broach it head on.

“How's Mary?” I asked.

John crossed his arms.

“Oh, well...I don't know how to say this, exactly...”

I waited.

“We had a row,” John continued. “A big one. You always seem to have that effect on my relationships.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

John shrugged and started fidgeting with an empty teacup on that was on the mantelpiece.

“Don't be,” he said, putting the cup down with a clatter. “It took me awhile to see it, but it was for the best, really.”

“How so?”

John met my eyes, blinking. “Turns out I wasn't ready to move on, after all.”

 _Move on from what?_ I wondered. _Could he be talking about us?_

After a moment, John cleared his throat.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

I stared at him in shock.

“I love your soft heart,” John continued. “And your pirate ways. And how you strut around London as if you own the whole bloody city.”

I was looking at him, but not really seeing him. I'd imagined scenarios like this, of course, but there was never a good time. After that first night, there never had been.

John paused, his voice sharpening. “Are you even listening to me?”

I blinked, his face coming into focus.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Of course I was listening. But I don't know what to say.”

“Maybe you don't have to _say_ anything,” John whispered back fiercely.

I hesitated a moment, then stood from the chair and closed the gap between us in a single stride. John tilted his head back to look up at me.

“Just a minute,” I muttered, putting my hands on his shoulders awkwardly. But that wasn't quite right.

“What are you-” John started to say, but then I put my hands on his face. He blinked up at me, waiting. The sharp stubble along his chin prickled my fingers, drawing all of my attention to this moment, deepening my resolve.

“I love you, too, John,” I said, and my lips quickly found his mouth.

 

_The End_

 


End file.
